“I’ll hold them back,” Corbett said. “You get going! Your niece, she needs you!”
“Not anymore, kemosabe,” Victor said, shouldering his rifle.
Corbett saw the ugly bite wound on his friend’s left hand. Victor’s blood was bright red as it gushed from the wound. Droplets of scarlet fell to the road, splashing in the dust. Corbett despaired. If he’d been forced to choose one person to save, it would have been Victor. But his friend had been bitten. He was a walking dead man.
“Victor…” Corbett murmured. Sudden tears made his vision blurry.
“Go on, Barry,” Victor said. “Please, save my niece. I’ll hold them here for as long as I can.”
“Victor, damn it—”
“Barry!” Victor snapped. “Please get out of here!”
The dead were only thirty feet away. Victor swapped out magazines, and Corbett covered for him he did so.
“Go on!” Victor shouted as he slapped the carrier release on his rifle. “I’m dead, Barry. Get out of here!” There was no fear in the tribal leader’s eyes, only hard, flinty dedication. Victor Kuruk saw his future, and it didn’t faze him in the slightest.
Corbett took a step back, still firing. He kept pulling the trigger until his weapon ran dry, then he stumbled away. By the time he made it out of the alleyway and saw his Gulfstream on the run-up pad, he was full-on sobbing. The airstair was extended, and through the big oval windows in the aircraft’s side, he saw people moving about inside. A few armed men stood on security near the big jet. As soon as he came into view, they sprinted toward him.
The jet emitted a low rumble that climbed into a shrill whine as the right engine spooled up. The bifold door on the hangar was open. Inside were dozens of people. Townspeople and his remaining staff were frantically transferring the contents of two nearby semi-truck trailers into the hangar. They pulled heavily laden pallet jacks to the structure, hurriedly unloaded them, then darted back to load them up again.
As loud as the engine noise was, Corbett never heard Victor scream when the firing stopped and the dead overwhelmed him. His old friend went stoically, just like a Hollywood hero.
###
The jet was full when Corbett scaled the airstair, his face wet with tears and sweat. His hands shook, and his legs were weak and rubbery. One of his men cut through the cabin, moving people aside as he led Corbett to his customary seat in the rear compartment. Corbett looked back at the flight deck, where both pilots were bringing the big jet to life. The relief pilot was perched on the jump seat, while a person he didn’t recognize, possibly a family member of one of the pilots, sat in the crew rest seat.
“Sir, is anyone else coming?” the relief pilot asked.
“This is it,” Corbett said quietly before turning to walk through the well-appointed galley.
The left engine began to wind up. Cool air whispered from the hidden vents. Frightened faces turned to look up at him as he passed. The cabin configuration allowed for sixteen passengers. There were almost thirty people on the plane. Children sat in their parents’ laps, and four and five people were smashed together on divans designed to seat three. At the four-place dining area, the table had been removed to make more room. Danielle Kennedy, holding a child, sat there with her father, across from two women with children on their laps.
Corbett evaded her gaze as he pushed into the VIP cabin. A three-seat divan was positioned across from a single chair. The single seat was empty, save for a blanket and pillow on its buttery leather cushions. A bottle of chilled water stood in the cup holder, placed there by his ever-thoughtful flight crew. Lined up on the divan were the Sinclairs and Norton’s mother. By the aft bulkhead was Suzy Kuruk. Mike Hailey stood by the open lavatory door, sweating profusely. He had a hand on Suzy’s shoulder.
Corbett took in a quivering breath as he bent over his seat and removed the blanket and pillow. He handed them to Sinclair, who took them wordlessly. Sinclair pointed his camera as Corbett sank into his wide seat and felt the jet being to move. Corbett ignored him and looked at Suzy. Tears were already welling up in her eyes.
“He sacrificed himself,” Corbett told her, his voice thick and husky.
She nodded. “I knew he would.” Her voice was barely audible over the mounting roar of the jet engines.
The pilot announced they were going to take off immediately and that everyone needed to secure themselves as much as possible.
Corbett fastened his seat belt then motioned at Hailey. “Hailey, go sit in the lav. There’s a seat belt on the toilet.”
“Can’t, sir. Mr. Norton’s in there.”
Corbett pointed at the floor in front of his feet. “Sit here, then. Put your back against the bulkhead. This is going to be a full-power takeoff. Arthur, you belted in?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” Arthur called out. “I’ve never sat on a toilet as luxurious as this one, Barry!”
Corbett wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and looked out the large oval window beside him. The hangar door was closing, sealing off over a hundred souls from the rest of the world. For the next few months, that would be their home. And just in time.
From the entrance, an invading army of the dead boiled onto the airfield. More came over the walls surrounding the installation, a flood of carnivorous corpses that turned toward the taxiing plane with slack-jawed hunger. Several runners broke away, bolting toward the G650 as it lumbered along the taxiway. As the jet turned onto the runway proper, the engines began to spool up. The pilots were transitioning from taxi to takeoff power without running any final checks.
Corbett unfolded the personal entertainment system beside him and thumbed through the menus. He activated the camera atop the Gulfstream’s T-tail. The end of the runway was already saturated with dead, and they streamed toward the jet like ants scurrying to a dropped peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“Jock, you get that drink you wanted?” he asked over the mounting roar of the engines.
Sinclair reached into the cup holder in the divan’s armrest. He held up a crystal tumbler half-full of dark liquid. “I did, indeed.”
Corbett turned the flat screen monitor toward him. “I’d drink up, if I were you.”
Sinclair’s eyes bugged when he saw the image, then he pointed the camera at it. “Good Lord,” he said. He ruined the shot by taking a large hit of cognac.
Corbett tried to smile but failed. He looked out the window again, watching the runway trundle past as the Gulfstream accelerated. Stenches closed in from the sides, and soon, the plane’s wide, upswept wings were passing over them. Then the nose rose, and Corbett was pressed against his seatbelt and shoulder harness as the jet roared into the sky at an unusual angle.
Over the bellow of the engines, he heard startled gasps from the others. A child began to cry. With a muted thump, the landing gear retracted, then the gear well doors closed with a whine. The climb angle lessened, and Corbett leaned forward. His seat was well aft of the wings, so he was able to watch the big flaps retract setting by setting. With each evolution, the airplane settled slightly, which caused a small tremor of fear to run through the passengers. Corbett knew it was a normal effect, so he leaned back in his seat and turned the monitor toward him again.
Paging through the displays, he called up the flight map. The Gulfstream was passing through three hundred knots airspeed and climbing out through eight thousand feet. The destination was Oxnard Airport, which wasn’t quite right, but the navigation system could hardly be programmed to fly to a direct point over the Pacific. The flight would last less than thirty minutes after the G650 hit its max power cruise of almost six hundred fifteen miles per hour.
Corbett watched the rising mountainous landscape slide past beneath the climbing jet. As much as the earth below might try, it would never be able to pluck the Gulfstream from the sky. Already, the airplane was flying higher than the peak of Mount Whitney. Single Tree, or what was left of it, fell farther and farther behind with each passing second.
Victor
...
Corbett felt his eyes burn anew. He wiped them then looked over at Suzy. She sat on the divan, her face stoic even as tears rolled down her cheeks. Hailey touched her leg, and Corbett was glad the man was there for her. He hoped they would last for the rest of their lives, and that their lives would last long enough for that to mean something.
He picked up the satellite phone from the arm rest and dialed Lennon’s number.
OFF THE COAST OF CALIFORNIA
Norton watched while Lennon stepped into the galley and took the call on the satellite phone. He had the Argosy back on its anchors again, and the big yacht slowly rolled in the sea swells despite the dampening provided by the Naiad stabilizers. The Port Police dive boat was still out there, sitting Lennon’s mandated number of yards away on its own hook. Several men in uniform were on its decks, watching the Argosy through binoculars. Norton wondered why they were so damned interested in his yacht, but at least they had stopped trying to communicate over the radio.
To keep himself busy, Norton checked the yacht’s systems. Everything was perfect, and their fuel state was good. To save fuel, he only ran one generator, and that was mostly just to keep the batteries charged. The watermaker had shut off when the holding tank became full. He realized he could use a shower, as stress had effectively wiped out whatever odor protection his deodorant had provided. He also wanted a cigarette, but there were none aboard the yacht.
Wait a minute... He opened the chart drawers and rummaged through some of the old paper NOAA charts. In the bottom of the second drawer, he found a box of Logic e-cigarettes. A month past their expiration date, they probably wouldn’t taste very good, but he tore one open. The battery of the first one was dead, so he tossed it back into the drawer and opened a second package. The LED in the tip glowed blue when he pulled on it, and a flood of nicotine-laced vapor flowed into his mouth and lungs. It didn’t taste half bad. Norton exhaled with a long sigh.
“What the hell is that?” Lennon asked, walking back to the pilothouse. “I thought you Hollywood types only smoked Cuban cigars.”
“Never really cared for them,” Norton said. “So what’s the poop?”
“Jet’s on its way. Should be here in about twenty-five minutes or so. About thirty souls on board.” Lennon sighed and looked at the rolling Pacific. “We’re going to have to move fast to get those people out of the water. We can’t count on the jet not breaking up, so we’re going to have to get to the crash site as quickly as we can.”
“Did everyone make it aboard?” Norton asked.
Lennon nodded. “Everyone who could. Don’t worry, Norton. Your people are all there. The old man has eyes on your parents and the girl.”
Norton nodded and took another hit off the Logic. “What about your people?”
“My family is accounted for. We should come off anchor in about fifteen minutes or so and get the tender back in the water.”
Norton pointed at the dive boat across the water. “We could ask those guys for a hand.”
Lennon considered that for a moment. “Think they would?”
“They’re cops. They might want what we have, but I don’t think they’re going to just stand around and watch a jet crash and sink without trying to help out.”
Lennon rubbed his chin. “Okay. Call them and explain things.” He stepped toward the gangway that led below deck.
“Where you going?” Norton asked.
Lennon turned back and gave him a frosty glare. “I’m not about to try to save my family and boss while wearing a polo shirt and board shorts.”
Norton chuckled and picked up the radio handset. “Dive Boat One, this is Argosy on sixteen. Over.”
###
“So, Argosy, you say a Gulfstream jet is going to ditch in this area. Is that correct? Over,” Bay said into his radio.
Reese and some of the other cops had listened to the last transmission from the Pacific Mariner yacht several hundred yards away, and it was a humdinger. Reese didn’t know what to make of it, other than to think it was a group of old, rich white guys trying to mount some half-assed rescue operation. How they’d roped in a bunch of Marines was the question. He could only suppose that whoever was on that jet was some sort of überVIP.
“Dive Boat, that is correct. We anticipate the jet to arrive in about two-five minutes. We’re still coordinating how it’s going to play out, but the jet should be in the drink shortly thereafter, assuming they don’t need to dump fuel to lower the landing weight. Over.”
“Roger, Argosy. So you want us to pitch in and help out, is that it? Over,” Bay said.
“Dive Boat, that’s your call. We could probably use the help, but if not, you might want to clear the area. No telling where the jet will wind up once it hits the waves, and if you’re not interested in giving a hand, you probably don’t want to become a potential target. Over.”
Bay looked around the bridge of the dive boat. “Anyone believe this?”
“Too stupid not to be true,” Plosser said, leaning against the pilothouse’s aft bulkhead. “I mean, it’s going to be pretty easy to verify if a jet doesn’t drop out of the sky. Then again, I wonder why we’re giving a fuck?”
Bay eyed at the taller man. “We’re still cops.”
Plosser pointed to the south, where a plume of smoke was still rising from the Port of Los Angeles. “Yeah, and your beat is about nine miles that way.”
“Look, let’s help out,” Reese said. “We’re here, and we’ve wasted a couple of hours already. No one’s going ashore today, and we can recon later. If the guys on that boat are really prepping for a recovery mission, we can lend a hand. Right?”
Plosser spread his hands. “Hey, whatever you guys want to do. Just trying to get the lay of the land.”
Bates stirred from his position on the opposite side the bridge. “Connor, let’s do it. Whoever’s going to be crashing a jet into the drink at this stage in the game has got to be some sort of high-level VIP. I’m thinking government or someone we might regret not assisting later.”
“How so?”
Bates shrugged. “Might be someone with resources or someone with a line to someone else who does. And if it’s government, then we definitely need to be on hand.” He nodded toward the big yacht. “If those guys really are jarheads, then something big is up.”
Bay rubbed his whiskered chin. “Yeah, maybe,” he said unenthusiastically.
One of the uniformed Marines still stood on the yacht’s aft deck, SAW in hand, while another remained aft of the flybridge’s overhang. That one had a grenade launcher on his rifle, and he maintained a loose firing stance. Plosser had said the dive boat was still well within the grenade launcher’s effective range.
Bay brought the radio handset to his mouth. “Argosy, we’ll pitch in. Where do you want us? Over.”
###
As the Gulfstream G650 began its initial descent, the remaining members of Corbett’s security team walked through the cabin, opening footrests and pulling out life vests. They also retrieved the lifeboats from beneath the two divans. Everyone was advised that their seat cushions were suitable for flotation and that the overwing exits should be the primary means of egress. The main cabin door would only be opened if the passengers could get clear fast enough.
Corbett pulled his own life vest out of his footrest and handed it to Suzy. “Put this on, please. When you’re outside, inflate it by pulling that T-tab, there.” He pointed to one of two red tabs dangling from the bottom of the vest.
“What about you?” Suzy asked. Her voice was flat, but her eyes were dry. She was already over crying for her uncle. Corbett wondered if she hated him.
“I don’t need it,” he said.
Sinclair ejected the memory card from the camera. He pulled a plastic baggy from his vest and slipped the card inside.
“Not going to record the big event, Jock?” Corbett asked.
Sinclair shook his head. “I doubt I’ll have time, and in case I don’t make it, I want the evidence pr
eserved.”
“Evidence of my transgressions against all humankind?”
Sinclair cocked his head. “You have done some questionable things, Barry. But this might be a set of circumstances where the ends justify the means. I’ll have to let others make that determination.” He glanced at his wife. “But personally, thank you for everything you’ve done. For both of us.”
Meredith nodded. “Yes. Jock’s right. You’ve done more than your fair share of saving lives, Mr. Corbett.”
Corbett leaned back in his seat and shook his head. The security team advised everyone with swivel seats to turn them so they were facing the rear of the plane. Children were transferred to seats that faced the tail. Corbett looked out the window. The Pacific was coming into view, cold and steel gray. To the south, the great metropolis of Los Angeles hid beneath a haze of smoke.
A stream of vapor shot out the rear of the wing. The pilots were dumping fuel.
One of this security men appeared in the doorway. “Sir?”
“What is it, Stillson?” Corbett asked.
“We’re about five minutes out. We’re in contact with Mr. Norton over the VHF, and we’re headed toward his GPS coordinates.” The guard frowned. “You need a life preserver, sir.”
“I’ll be fine. Is the cabin secure? Everyone briefed on escape procedures? Who’s going to pop the exits?”
“Me and Holgan, sir. You really need to get a life preserver, Mr. Corbett.”
“Get lost, Stillson. I’m not putting one on, and that’s that. I know how to swim, and the rafts are in position.”
“Sir—”
“That’s enough! Get the hell away from me. I’ve done what I can. Look after these other people, and leave me alone!”
The guard clenched his jaw. After a few seconds, he said, “I’ll be right here, sir.”
Corbett returned to gazing out the window, ignoring everything and everyone, a prisoner of his own thoughts.
The Last Town Page 61